Orphan of Angel Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

of an old mangle against the far wall, then fading to a solid blackness at the back. Miss O’Donnell forced her down on the damp floor against the wall.
    ‘And you can stay in there ’til you rot!’
    With heavy tread she hurried back up the steps and slammed the door with such force that the planks reverberated. Mercy heard the bolt rattle across. And then it was dreadfully quiet. All she could hear was her own jagged breathing and a slow dripping sound from somewhere in the blackness.
    She stretched her eyes wide, trying to see any speck of light, but there was none at first. After a few moments, at the far end she made out a block of grey, strained light from a grating on the street. Mercy pulled herself up while she still had the courage to move and crawled up the cellar steps where there was a crack of light from under the door. She sat on the top step, hugging herself. From here she couldn’t see the ghostly light from the grating. The darkness in front of her was like a gaping well, full of invisible, whispering presences.
    She felt a twinge in her belly and realized her bladder was urgently full. Pulling her legs in even closer, she sank her teeth into her forearm, rocking back and forth, making a little moaning noise to herself, needing to hear a sound from somewhere because if she stopped it was so silent and there would be nothing but the dark. She clenched her eyes shut and kept rocking, rocking . . .
    ‘I want—’ A whisper escaped from her and became part of the rhythm. ‘I want I want I want . . .’ as her back banged harder against the rough wall. At first it was angry, hard rocking that jarred the breath in her lungs. ‘I want I want . . .’ A cry she had never been able to use in her life escaped from her ‘Mom!’ And then, ‘Amy . . . Amy . . .’
    But Amy was gone to be a servant in Canada. She’d left weeks ago via Liverpool, with a tin trunk, cloth bag and a label on her coat. In the hall they’d sung ‘God Be with You ’til We Meet Again’, and after, Amy had hugged her tight and told her she’d always love her and be her friend.
    She rocked more gently, tired, her tiny body aching, sobbing at last, so that tears fell on her cotton pinafore and she had to wipe her nose on it, having no hanky. Mixed in with her rage and grief was the thought of the spread of cold meats and salads, of pudding and cakes laid out upstairs, of all the other girls with their hair ribbons, eating plates of this out of the ordinary food, when every other day it was stew, stew, stew. Dorothy had told her there would be jellies: quivering castles of ruby red, royal purple of crushed blackcurrants, the cool sweet smoothness of it down your throat . . .
    She cried herself to exhaustion, the sobs making her ribs hurt even more. Her belly was tight and uncomfortable. Putting her hands down on each side of her to shift her weight, her left hand met something long and soft, and she jerked it away, panting with revulsion, breaking out in a sweat. Her palm was coated in a slimy stickiness. She shifted quickly to the other end of the step, wiping the hand frantically on her pinner. All those things, those shapes, down there, that drip, drip, drip . . . things she couldn’t see, were they getting closer, were they, were they? And the slimy thing next to her, where was it, what was it doing? Panic swelled right up into her throat until she was gasping with it, and she could hold on no longer. The warm rush of urine, so dreadfully wet, soaked through her bloomers, through the skirt of her dress, fast turning cold on her skin and splashing her ankles, nasty-smelling. She whimpered in distress, holding her knees tightly with her arms, not daring to move to the dryer part of the steps because that slimy thing was there waiting for her.
    The door seemed the one solid thing of safety and she thrust her fingers in her ears, and pushed her head down on her knees making herself keep her eyes shut.
    If I can’t see them they’re